Now does he feelHis secret murders sticking on his hands,(20)Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;Those he commands move only in command,Nothing in love. Now does he feel his titleHang loose about him, like a giant's robeUpon a dwarfish thief.(25)

MENTEITH:

Who then shall blameHis pester'd senses to recoil and start,When all that is within him does condemnItself for being there?

CAITHNESS:

Well, march we on,(30)To give obedience where ’tis truly owed.Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal,And with him pour we, in our country's purge,Each drop of us.

LENNOX:

Or so much as it needsTo dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds.Make we our march towards Birnam